


give me your armour (and you can have my heart)

by arysa13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Robosexuality, Robots, Smut, robot Bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 10:53:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21493123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysa13/pseuds/arysa13
Summary: To Clarke, the idea of a robot that seems completely human is a little unnerving, but she can't deny Bellamy has improved her life since he's been in it.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 88
Kudos: 373





	give me your armour (and you can have my heart)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to ragingserenity for being this fic's uncle
> 
> I know this AU is a little weird, but I hope someone out there can enjoy it.

It’s quieter in Roan’s study, the thick walls blocking out the sound of the party downstairs. Clarke gazes down from the window at the front driveway, a half empty glass of champagne in her hand. There are still people arriving, strangers dressed in finery, though this party is supposedly for her. She hasn’t bothered to turn the lights on, so she knows they can’t see her, even if by some chance they decided to look up.

She drops her hand from the curtain and lets it swing shut, turning away from the window. She sets her glass down on the shiny wooden desk and sinks into the antique desk chair. Everything in Roan’s mansion is either ancient or brand new. It all costs far too much money.

Clarke switches on the desk lamp, emitting a soft yellow light that makes only a small dent in the darkness. She turns her head to the wall on her right, where she can just make out Roan’s portrait. She’d think it vain to have a painting of yourself hanging in your own study, but she’s the one who painted it, so she can’t be too judgemental. Roan is the reason for her success after all.

Clarke starts as the heavy door opens, and a looming silhouette steps into the doorway.

“Hiding from the party?” Roan asks. His voice is a deep drawl, instantly recognisable. He steps forward into the light, and Clarke can see he’s wearing a different outfit from when she last saw him. He’d been dressed in a suit when the party started, but now he’s more casual, in what is no doubt a designer t-shirt and chinos. He’s also pulled his long hair from its ponytail and it hangs around his face.

“I’m not hiding,” Clarke lies. “I just needed some space.”

“These people are all here for you, you know.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “They are not. I don’t even know most of them.”

“They’re potential clients, Clarke. They’re all here to see _your _work. Word is going to get around. Soon everyone will be clamouring for a Clarke Griffin original piece.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I do. You think I would have invested in you if I didn’t think you had the potential?”

Clarke shrugs. “I guess not.”

It’s not that she’s modest, or self-deprecating. She knows her work is good. It’s just that she never thought she’d have to rub shoulders with these snobbish, high class millionaires, with a fake smile plastered on her face, pretending to care about cars and golf, just so they’ll commission her for a painting. She feels like a fraud in the three-thousand-dollar designer dress Roan had bought for her, too tight across her chest, the colour all wrong for her.

And okay, she hadn’t exactly been poor growing up. Her mother was a doctor, her father an engineer. They were well off. But this is something else entirely. And besides, Clarke never really got along with the stuck-up rich kids at the private school she went to, preferring to befriend the janitor’s daughter instead. Her friends from college were a bunch of misfits with little to no money to their name, paying for college in bar tips and scholarships, scraping by by the skin of their teeth.

But then, Clarke never truly fit in with them either. She was determined to do things her own way, live her life without her mom paying for everything for her. But she still had that option to fall back on, while her friends never did.

Still, those people downstairs are just not her people. Being surrounded by them just reminds her how alone she is.

“What’s the matter?” Roan asks. “Aren’t you happy?”

“I’m happy,” Clarke says. “I’m really happy. Thank you.”

Roan smiles. Clarke almost has a heart attack when another face appears behind Roan. It’s Echo. She moves so silently, it’s terrifying.

“Roan,” Echo says. “Your mother is here.”

Roan groans. “Did you tell her she’s not welcome?”

“Yes. She refuses to listen to me. Says I have no authority over her.”

Roans rubs his face, frustrated. Clarke studies Echo’s features, trying to catch some glimpse of something not human about her. Some flaw in her design. A twitch, a crack, a join. There’s nothing. She’s tall and tan, beautiful, long brown hair. Flawless skin, full, pouty lips, and a figure to die for. She’s totally perfect. Perhaps that’s the thing that betrays her true nature.

“Fine, I’ll be down in a minute,” Roan says. “Go and make sure she doesn’t find Ontari, or they’ll be conspiring on how to get a wedding ring on my finger again.”

“Yes, sir.” Echo nods and leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

“She still freaks me out,” Clarke says.

“Why?”

“She’s seems so real.”

“She is real.”

“But not really. She looks human, but she doesn’t _feel _human.”

Roan smirks. “Oh, she feels human. Believe me.”

Clarke makes a face. “Gross. Roan, you fuck that thing?”

“It’s one of the many reasons I have her,” Roans says.

“Doesn’t it bother you that she can’t say no?”

“She can say no. They do have a certain amount of free will, you know. But she wants to have sex with me. Just like she wants to protect me from my mother.”

“Because that’s what she’s programmed to want.”

Roan shrugs. “I guess. What difference does it make? Like you said, she’s not real. She’s here to make my life easier. If you had an Assistant you’d understand.”

“Okay, I get the protecting you and the cleaning for you and the cooking for you. But the sex? That’s weird. It’s like having a sex doll. I don’t know how you could have sex with a robot.”

“It’s not really. She can feel pleasure. She can touch me and kiss me and do whatever else she wants to me. And she’s really good at it. It’s like really great no strings attached sex whenever I want it.”

“I still think it’s weird.”

Roan shrugs. “Luckily I don’t care what you think. Now come and talk to my mother so that I don’t have to.”

Clarke sighs, resigned to her fate. She stands, picking up her champagne flute, and follows Roan from the room, back to the party to celebrate her good fortune.

-

Abby has never understood why Clarke can take money from Roan but not from her own mother. To Clarke, there’s a huge difference. She doesn’t want her mother to give her money out of obligation. Roan actually likes her work. He expects something from her, to work hard and have his investment pay off. It feels like an achievement, whereas getting money off her mom feels like mooching.

Clarke is, however, renting her townhouse off her mom. But she’s still _paying _rent, even if the rent is slightly cheaper than it really should be for such a nice place. She’d meant to clean up before her mother dropped around, but she’d ended up spending all morning in her studio instead. She can see Abby eyeing the mess, wondering when the last time Clarke vacuumed was, but to her credit she doesn’t comment on it.

Clarke brings coffee into the high-ceilinged living room, but she doesn’t have any food to offer. She’s notoriously bad for ordering in instead of buying groceries and cooking for herself. It’s not that she _can’t _cook, but she doesn’t really enjoy it, and she’d rather spend that time doing something else. Plus, worse than cooking, is the cleaning up _after _the cooking. It’s easier just to get food delivered and throw out the containers.

Clarke sits across the coffee table from her mother, and Abby takes a sip of her coffee.

“How was the party last night?” Abby asks, setting her drink down on a coaster.

Clarke shrugs. “It was fine.”

“Did you sell any of your art?”

“A couple pieces,” Clarke says. “Honestly, I don’t think anyone was really there for the art. Roan King throws a party and you’re there, art lover or not.”

“Still, you sold some, that’s great,” Abby says. “I’ll have to come along next time.”

Clarke tries not to grimace. Abby has always tried to be supportive of Clarke’s love of art, but she doesn’t really _get _it. She’s always saying things like “What is it supposed to be?” and “It’s very nice, sweetie.”

“Sure,” Clarke says. “I’ll make Roan put you on the guest list.”

Abby’s mouth pulls into a tight line at the mention of Roan’s name, but she says nothing on the topic. Instead she says, “There’s a friend of mine I’d like you to meet.” Which usually means, _the child of a colleague or acquaintance who is roughly your age_. AKA, Clarke’s next blind date.

“Mooom,” Clarke whines. “Please stop. I don’t want you to set me up anymore.”

“Come on, sweetie. It’s been years since you-know-who, and you haven’t been in a relationship since. You aren’t still hung up on her, are you?”

“Of course not,” Clarke sighs. “I just want to focus on my art right now. A relationship will only distract me.”

Abby chews her lip. “You can have both, you know.”

“I know. I’m only twenty-eight. I have plenty of time to find someone.”

“I know!” Abby says hurriedly. “But I’m worried about you. You don’t date, you barely see your friends. And that Mr King doesn’t count. All you do is paint and go to work. You don’t even have a cat.”

“What are you saying, Mom?”

“Aren’t you lonely?”

The question hits her in the gut, and she has to take a breath. Her loneliness is not something she likes to dwell on. Yes, she’s alone. She’s okay with that. She doesn’t need a relationship to feel okay about herself.

But the truth is, sometimes at night she aches to be touched by another person. Held, loved. She can’t remember the last time she had sex. Can’t remember the last time someone so much as hugged her.

She gets home from work and she has no one to talk to, no one to tell about her mundane day. No one to cook for her, no one to watch TV with her. No one to crawl into bed with. Sometimes she’s so lonely it aches. And yet, the loneliness is a price she’s willing to pay if it means not having her heart broken again.

She swallows. “I’m fine, Mom,” she says, rolling her eyes, as if Abby is just being stupidly overprotective again. The only thing worse than being lonely, is _telling _someone she’s lonely. There’s something so sad and humiliating about admitting she needs someone. That she’s not as fine on her own as she’s always made out. That she so desperately craves human affection, human connection.

“Listen, it’s been nice talking, but I have things to do today,” Clarke says.

“Clarke,” Abby says, affronted. “I’ve barely had two sips of my coffee. I thought we’d spend the afternoon together.”

The truth is Clarke had been looking forward to spending time with her mom, but now that she’s here, Clarke can’t bear the pity, the constant attempts to fix her life. She knows Abby means well, but it’s a little too much for her right now.

That’s part of her problem. She spends her days and nights feeling isolated and lost, needing someone to talk to, people to engage with, wishing she had a party to go to, or a friend’s house. And then as soon as she finds some company, she’s desperate to be alone again. Perhaps it’s because no one really gets it. Gets _her_. She feels like everyone wants her to be something she’s not. A doctor, or a politician, a trophy wife. They want her to be charismatic and charming, they want her to aspire to fame. They want her to be outgoing and extroverted. Nobody actually wants to _listen _to her, or just _be _with her.

“I know, Mom, I’m sorry,” Clarke says. “Maybe another time.”

“Okay, I get it,” Abby sighs. She stands up. “Just—call me more often, okay? I’m always here if you need someone to talk to.”

“I know, Mom.”

-

She really intends to clean up that afternoon. But then she looks at all the mess, and she has no idea where to start, so she just locks herself in her studio again and tries to paint something, or draw something, but no inspiration comes, and she ends up just lying on the floor for the better part of the afternoon, until the doorbell rings, and she drags herself up from the floorboards and reluctantly to the front door.

She opens the door, intending to say—well, _something_, but whatever it is, the words die on her tongue, and she’s left standing open-mouthed and speechless. She’s not sure who she was expecting to be standing on her front steps, but it wasn’t _this_.

“Hi,” he says. “I’m Bellamy.” His smile is wide and bright, showing off his perfect white teeth. His voice is deep and calm and soothing, and his eyes are this dark brown colour that Clarke wants to sink into. His hair is dark and unruly, yet somehow immaculately curled at the same time, and across his face, a smattering of freckles. He’s somehow devastatingly hot, and heart-clenchingly adorable at the same time. She’s never seen someone who looks so—perfect.

He stares at her, still smiling, waiting for her to say something, but her brain has short-circuited and her tongue has never felt so heavy in her mouth.

“Are you okay?” he asks, frowning. “Didn’t Roan tell you I was coming?”

Clarke shakes her head. “Roan?” she finally manages to say. “He sent you?” Bellamy nods. “What for?”

“As a gift,” Bellamy says.

A deep blush immediately covers Clarke’s face. Oh god. Has Roan hired her a prostitute? Despite her embarrassment, her eyes stray from his face, trying to work out what he might look like under his black shirt and pants. He’s got big shoulders, big arms, big hands, but that’s as far as she can tell. Still, she’s already imagining him wrapping her up in those arms, holding her down with those hands, slipping those huge fingers inside her. Would it be wrong to accept this gift?

Her eyes flick back up to his face. He’s still looking at her, but he shows no sign that he’s aware of what she’s thinking.

“I’m your new Assistant,” he says, when Clarke doesn’t say anything.

“Oh,” Clarke says. Her eyes widen. “_Oh_. You’re—a robot.”

Bellamy chuckles. Clarke can hear no trace of mechanics in his laugh. It’s warm and genuine. Human. “Yes.”

Clarke stares at him a little longer. He tilts his head, questioning. “Do you want me to leave?” he asks.

“No,” Clarke blurts out, before she can think better of it. Bellamy smiles, like he’s pleased. Can a robot be pleased? “Um,” she says, then steps out of the way. “Come in.”

Bellamy accepts her invitation, brushing past her and into her house. Clarke watches him. She can’t take her eyes off him. Her heart is racing like never before. She closes the front door, and Bellamy turns to face her.

“So how does this work?” Clarke asks nervously. She’s not entirely sure she _wants _an Assistant. She still thinks the whole thing is kind of weird. But Roan hadn’t exactly given her a choice in the matter, and even though Bellamy offered to leave, she finds she doesn’t want to hurt his feelings. As if robots have any.

“Well,” Bellamy says. “I’m here to do whatever you want me to do,” he says. “You can download the app on your phone and read the manual if you like. But if you want a quick overview, I can tell you now.”

“Okay.”

“I’m activated by voice command,” he says. “There are two modes. Manual, and sensory. I’m on manual right now, so you need to tell me what to do. If you switch to sensory mode, I can deduce for myself what you need from me.”

“So you have to do whatever I say?”

“Pretty much,” Bellamy grins. “I do have a small amount of free will. But I’ve been programmed so that my will is to please you.”

“And what can you—do?”

“Anything you like. Cook, clean, run errands, drive you places, make phone calls and appointments, offer protection, find information, satisfy you sexually—”

“Okay,” Clarke cuts him off, blushing again. She’s definitely not going to use him for _that_.

“You can also program me to do things at set times. For example, if you like breakfast at a certain time, you can just tell me to make you breakfast at that time every morning.”

“Okay,” Clarke says. She’s still taking it all in. Still trying to come to terms with how good looking he is.

“So what would you like me to do first?”

“Um,” Clarke looks around at her mess of a house, and even though she feels awkward asking, it’s the only thing she can think of that will keep him busy while she calls Roan. “Do you think you could do some cleaning up for me?”

Bellamy smiles. “It would be my pleasure.”

-

Clarke shuts herself in her room. She’s not hiding from him (is it a him? Do robots have gender?) exactly, it’s just—it’s very unnerving to have a very attractive robot man show up at her doorstep and tell her he’ll do whatever she wants him to do.

Now that she’s not in the same room as him, she can think a little more clearly, without his disarming good looks to turn her brain into mush. She calls Roan.

“You got my present,” he says by way of a greeting.

“What are you thinking?” Clarke hisses. “I told you, I think they’re weird.”

“I’d already ordered him when you told me that. Just give him a chance.”

“I don’t want to keep him. You have to take him back.”

“Clarke, I promise, you’re going to love him. You don’t have to have sex with him. Just let him take care of the house at least. Then you can have more time to do the things you want to do.”

Clarke chews her lip. “Roan, I really—I really don’t think I should keep him.”

“Because you’re attracted to him.”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“I—” Clarke starts, then closes her mouth in defeat. “Fine,” she snaps. “He’s hot, okay? He’s too hot. I can’t have someone that hot just walking around my house.”

“Just give him a chance, Clarke,” Roan repeats. “If you still don’t like him in a few days, I’ll take him back.”

She hangs up the phone, then stands there for a moment, considering her next move. She can’t hear anything from downstairs, but she supposes Bellamy must still be cleaning. Tentatively, she makes her way back downstairs. She finds Bellamy in the kitchen, sweeping the floor. She can’t get over how human he seems, despite his perfection. He moves completely naturally. Clarke is mesmerised by his impressive forearms as he sweeps, and bent over slightly, back to her, this is the perfect angle to check out his ass.

He looks up and smiles at her, noticing her presence. “Do you need something?” he asks.

“No, I—” Clarke swallows. She hopes he didn’t notice her wandering eyes. “You said there was an app?”

“Sure,” he says. “Just search Assistant on the app store.”

Clarke does as he says, and downloads the app that comes up. She opens the app, and it begins searching for nearby Assistants. The name _Bellamy Blake _pops up on the screen.

“You have a last name,” Clarke says.

“We’re designed to be as human as possible.”

“But you’re not really, are you? I mean—no matter how much you look human or act human, you don’t _feel _like humans do.”

“Maybe we don’t feel exactly like humans, but we do have feelings.”

This surprises Clarke. “You do?”

“Of course. We can feel pain, and pleasure. Fear, and desire. We can feel happiness, and sadness, and anger.”

“Jealousy? Guilt? Love?”

Bellamy shrugs. Such an unnecessary human gesture. “I guess those ones are a little more complex. What need does a robot have for guilt or jealousy?”

“Why do you need emotions at all? If you’re just here to serve humans?”

“Some people want Assistants as companions. Someone to talk to, to spend time with. Nobody wants an emotionless companion.”

“And yet you can’t feel love.”

Bellamy gives a sad smile. “That’s not what we’re built for. Humans are meant to love each other, not machines. Besides,” he adds. “You can’t engineer love. They’ve tried.”

Clarke drops her eyes back to the app. “It says I need a password to pair you with the app. Or your thumbprint. You even have thumbprints?”

Bellamy laughs, reaching out to take her phone from her. He presses his thumb against the screen, and her phone gives a sweet little _ding_. He hands it back to her, and on the screen is a menu with five options.

  * Commands
  * Calendar
  * Messages
  * User Manual
  * Emergency Shut Down

“Emergency shut down?” Clarke says nervously, glancing up at Bellamy. Is there a chance he’s going to go rogue and try to kill her? She has seen Westworld.

“It’s just a precaution,” he says.

“Okay,” Clarke says, unconvinced. “I guess I’ll go and take a look at the manual. You just—keep cleaning.”

Clarke retreats to her room again. She lies down on her bed, and opens Bellamy’s user manual. This whole thing feels so surreal. He seems human to her. There’s nothing about him that would betray what he really is. His movements are fluid, his voice full and even. His facial expressions are natural, his reactions and responses totally normal. And yet he has a user manual. If she cut him open, she’d find nothing but mechanics. He seems so real, and yet he’s not. It’s going to take some getting used to.

She scrolls through the manual, and it mostly just tells her what Bellamy already told her, but in more detail. She does find out that though he doesn’t require sleep or to be recharged, he works best if he has occasional periods of rest, and that it is a good idea to allow him to “sleep” for a few hours a night.

She stops when she gets to the section on sex, blushing as she hastily closes the app. It’s not that she’s a prude. But the thought of using him for _that_ embarrasses the hell out of her. What if someone found out? Like she said to Roan, it’s like having a sex doll. Which, in her opinion, is weird and desperate.

Still, she can’t help but wonder a _little _bit about what he has underneath his clothes. How realistic is he? Is his body as perfect as his face? How would sex with a robot even work? Does he know what he’s doing or would Clarke have to tell him?

Her phones pings, and she looks back at the screen to see she has a notification from the Assistant app. She opens the app again, and there’s a message from Bellamy. Clarke briefly wonders if he has a device of his own or if he sent the message with his robot brain.

**Bellamy: ** _Would you like me to make you dinner? _

Clarke glances at the time, and realises it’s almost 7pm. She’s been up here reading the manual for almost two hours.

**You: ** _That would be nice, but I’m not sure I have anything to make dinner with. _

**Bellamy: ** _I can check, and if you have nothing I can go out and buy groceries. You just have to authorise me to use your credit card. You can find the option under commands. _

Clarke chews her lip. She’s just supposed to let some random robot guy have control of her credit card? As if he can sense her hesitation, another message from Bellamy comes through.

**Bellamy: ** _Don’t worry, I’m not going to go on a spending spree. And no one else can give me commands but you. Your money is probably safer with me than in your wallet. _

**You: ** _Okay, thanks. _

**Bellamy: ** _Is there anything in particular you’d like, or do you want me to choose something?_

**You: ** _Surprise me._

-

When Clarke comes downstairs an hour and a half later to a clean house and a freshly cooked, Moroccan themed dinner, her doubts about keeping Bellamy around start to disappear. She could probably get used to this.

She sits down at the table, which is now spotless, and Bellamy places her meal in front of her. It smells amazing, and he’s even presented it nicely. Or as nicely as he can on her old, chipped plates. It’s like something from Masterchef.

She bites into the lamb, and closes her eyes for a moment. It’s possible that this is the best thing she’s ever tasted. Does she want restaurant quality food cooked for her every night for the rest of her life? Absolutely.

“Oh my god,” she breathes. “This is so good.”

“Thank you,” Bellamy says, smiling. “Should I clean up while you’re eating?”

Clarke looks up at him. It feels odd to send him off to clean up while she sits here and eats alone. Like he’s her slave. And yes, he’s not human, and yes, that’s what he’s built for. But _she’s _human. And truthfully, it might be nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who isn’t expecting anything of her.

“Why don’t you stay and eat with me?”

“I don’t eat,” Bellamy laughs. “But I can sit and talk with you.”

Clarke thinks it should be strange, talking to a robot. After all, what can he possibly have to talk about? He’s only been in existence for a few days, according to him. It’s not like he has a family, a life. But it turns out it doesn’t really matter. He asks her questions about herself, and listens to her answers like he’s genuinely interested. For once Clarke doesn’t feel guilty for talking about herself. She talks about her art mostly, and her mom, and Roan. And maybe they don’t get _deep_, but it’s nice to get her frustrations and thoughts out without worrying about being judged for treating her mother too harshly, or being ungrateful.

Bellamy shows her how to program the calendar, and she enters in a few daily commands, like meal times and household chores.

“You really don’t mind doing all this stuff?” Clarke asks, as she puts in a command for him to do her laundry tomorrow. “I feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”

“It’s literally what I’m here for, Clarke. Never feel bad for asking for what you want.”

Clarke is sure he’s just referring to himself, making sure she knows she can ask him to do anything and it won’t phase him, but somehow the comment gets to her more than it should, and tears spring to her eyes. She hastily gets to her feet before he can notice.

“Um,” she says. “I read in the manual that you need to sleep. There’s a spare bedroom you can use after you’ve cleaned up.”

“Sure,” Bellamy says. “Thank you.” He takes that as his cue to start cleaning up, and he takes her empty plate from in front of her. “There will be leftovers in the fridge for tomorrow,” he tells her.

“Thanks.”

She watches him walk back into the kitchen, before heading back upstairs. She turns the TV on in her room and falls asleep during the second episode of Westworld.

-

The first thing Clarke notices when she checks her phone the next morning is that she has a message from Bellamy, informing her that breakfast is ready. The second thing she notices is that it’s almost 8:30am, and she’s supposed to be at work in ten minutes.

She flies out of bed, cursing under her breath as she searches her floor for some clean clothes. She hastily pulls them on and winds her hair into a bun. She doesn’t look at herself in the mirror, doesn’t need to know what a travesty she looks like.

She races downstairs, phone, keys, and bag in hand, and almost runs directly into Bellamy.

“Fuck,” she swears. “I’m late! Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You didn’t tell me to,” he says apologetically. “I can’t do anything you don’t ask me to do while I’m on manual mode.”

“Okay, well, switch modes then,” Clarke huffs.

“You want me to switch to sensory mode?”

“Yes. Switch to sensory mode or whatever.”

“Okay,” he says. “Done. I’ll drive you to work.”

He takes her bag and keys, and for a moment Clarke is so stunned she forgets to follow him, until he turns around to check on her, and she hurries along behind him.

He drives perfectly. Of course he does. He probably has every road rule programmed into his robot brain, and lightning reflexes on top of that. Plus, he’s already shown he seems to have very good intuition. Like his intuition that he should drive her to work, like he somehow knows Clarke hates driving. Like when he drops her off at her destination, a medical centre where she works as a receptionist, and tells her he’ll be back in five minutes with coffee and a croissant. And somehow the coffee is exactly how she likes it, though she never offered up that information. Clarke can’t tell if it’s comforting or creepy.

“I’ll pick you up after work,” he tells her, and then he’s gone.

Clarke spends all day thinking about him. She sits at her desk, answering phones, taking appointments, barely hearing a word any of the patients or doctors say. She stews over whether or not to keep him. The truth is, in the one day she’s had him, he’s already helped her so much. The cleaning, the cooking, the driving her to work. All things she doesn’t want to do, things he’s made to do. Would it be so bad to take advantage of that?

At the same time, she still finds the whole thing weird. He seems so human, and yet somehow so eerily not human at the same time. It troubles her how easily he already seems to anticipate her needs. Is it more than just simple technological intuition? Can he read her thoughts? Or if not her thoughts, her messages or her search history or whatever other information is on her phone? The thought makes her uneasy. Maybe he’s secretly sending her data to the government. Clarke isn’t normally one for conspiracy theories, but she thinks it’s plausible.

She messages him at lunch to tell him she’ll take the bus home from work. She needs more time to think. But by the time she gets home, a little after five, she still hasn’t made up her mind.

But then she finds her house clean, her laundry done, her sheets changed, and music playing from the kitchen. It’s such a fucking relief to come home and not look around and see all the ways she’s failing to keep her life together. And there’s something soothing about having somebody else in the house. Makes it feel less empty.

She follows the sound of the music into the kitchen. She’s half expecting the music to be coming from Bellamy’s ears or something, but he just has her little Bluetooth speaker sitting on the counter. Although she can’t see any signs of the device it’s connected to.

“You like Fleetwood Mac, huh?” Clarke asks him. She doesn’t really know if robots have musical preferences. It’s seems strange to her that they would like music at all. Bellamy smiles, opening the oven and pulling a tray of cookies out of the oven. The warm, cinnamon scent fills Clarke’s nostrils, and her stomach grumbles.

“I like a lot of music,” Bellamy says.

“Do you actually like it, or are you just programmed to like it?”

“Is there a difference?”

“I’m not sure yet.” She eyes the cookies.

“They’re for you,” he says. Which, obviously. He doesn’t eat.

She doesn’t grab one just yet, instead turning her attention back to him. She bites her lip. “If I ask you something, will you answer honestly?”

“Of course.”

“How did you—how do you know what I want? Did I somehow give you access to private information when I downloaded the app?”

“No, Clarke, of course not,” Bellamy says. “I’m just programmed to be intuitive.”

“But you knew I don’t like to drive. And you knew my coffee order, and what kind of cookies I like.”

Clarke swears he smirks. Should robots even be allowed to smirk? What possible purpose does that serve, other than to be smug?

“Clarke,” he says. “I drove you to work because you were obviously frazzled because you were running late. I didn’t want you to get into an accident. And I went to the closest coffee shop to your work and asked if you had a usual order, which you did. And I found the recipe for these cookies in a cookbook, on your bookshelf, and this page was the most worn.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want a cookie?” Clarke nods, reaching for one. “Careful, they’re still hot.” Clarke bites into it anyway, letting it melt in her mouth and burn her tongue a little.

“Can I ask you something else?”

“You don’t have to ask me if you can ask questions.”

“Right. You said you have free will—I mean—how much free will exactly? Like to what extent can you deny my requests? Or do your own thing?”

“I can deny any request I wish to. But I don’t wish to.”

“But you don’t wish to because your programming doesn’t wish you to.”

“I suppose so,” Bellamy shrugs. “It feels the same to me.”

“What about if I told you to hurt somebody?”

“I can’t hurt people without cause. Only in instances of defence—your defence.”

“But not your own?”

“Human life is more important,” Bellamy says.

Clarke frowns. She’s more confused than ever. Mostly because she wants to keep him, but she doesn’t know about the morality of the situation. Is he just another piece of technology to make human existence easier, like a microwave or a computer? Or is he more than that? Plus, he’s still way too hot, and she keeps forgetting, and every time she looks at him she finds herself a little breathless.

“You’re overthinking this,” he says. Clarke takes another bite of her cookie. “Go and take a shower,” he says. “It will relax you.”

Clarke raises an eyebrow. “So now _you’re _giving _me _orders?” He stares at her, and Clarke wonders if she’s managed to make a robot speechless, or if he’s just glitching somehow.

“I didn’t even know I could do that,” he says. Clarke snorts out a laugh, and Bellamy grins. “I made you laugh,” he says, almost wondrously. “I didn’t know I could do _that_ either.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be all knowing?”

“I don’t know everything about _you_. That, I have to learn.”

Clarke gives a soft smile. “You’re doing a pretty good job so far.”

“Thank you,” Bellamy says, smiling back at her. God, he’s so fucking gorgeous. And thoughtful, and empathetic, and kind. He’s almost more human than most of the real life men she knows.

“Okay,” Clarke says, tuning to go. “I’ll go and take a shower. Since you so obviously know what’s best for me.”

“Does this mean you’re going to keep me?”

Clarke pauses, looking over her shoulder at him. “Did you overhear me on the phone to Roan?”

“No. He dropped around today to drop off my spare clothes and cleaning tools. I think he wanted an excuse to check up on how things are going. He asked me if you’d decided.”

“Oh,” Clarke says. “Well. Yes. I think I’m going to keep you. If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Bellamy says.

“As long as you keep making me delicious food.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Bellamy says, grinning at her. Clarke nods, and makes her way towards the kitchen door. “And I think I’ll keep trying to make you laugh,” Bellamy calls after her. “I’m not sure you do it often.”

-

It only takes two weeks of living with Bellamy to feel almost normal. He’s so humanlike, it’s almost like living with a roommate. A very clean, considerate roommate. When he’s not talking about his programming, which he seems to less and less, it’s easy to think of him as human. He doesn’t eat, or use the bathroom, but he still has to drink water, and shower as part of his maintenance routine.

As he gains more experience in the world, their conversations become less one sided. She tells him about her day, and he does the same. She’s not as good at listening as he is, but he doesn’t seem to mind if she accidentally cuts him off to add a thought. She finds it hilarious when he complains about the rude woman who served him at the grocery store. Is there anything more human than that?

She finds time to paint on Saturday, and she spends all morning in her studio, painting a portrait of Bellamy from memory, while he reads downstairs. Apparently that’s what robots like to do in their spare time.

She comes downstairs for lunch, her hands and jeans covered in paint. Bellamy has made her a chicken Caesar salad, and she sits in front of the TV and checks all her apps on her phone while she eats. 

Her heart drops when she opens Facebook, and the first thing on her feed is an engagement announcement. Fuck, why is she even still Facebook friends with Lexa? She stares at her ex’s radiant smile, hand on her face to show off her massive engagement ring.

It should make her feel nothing to see Lexa engaged. It’s been two years since they broke up. Clarke has long since stopped checking up on her on social media, hasn’t cried over her in over a year, barely thinks about her. Yet this news hits her in the gut like a tonne of bricks, and she feels like she’s going to be sick. The last few awful days of the relationship play through her mind, and suddenly the break up feels as fresh as if it were yesterday.

Bellamy walks in from the kitchen, carrying two glasses of water.

“Clarke, are you okay?” he asks immediately. She looks up, blinking back tears.

“Fine,” she croaks out. “I’m fine.”

Bellamy walks over, putting the glasses of water on the coffee table next to Clarke’s salad. “What’s happened?” he asks, sitting beside her on the couch.

She swallows. “It’s nothing, it’s stupid. You wouldn’t understand.” She glances at him, and he’s watching her with wide, worried eyes. She doesn’t mean to tell him, but the words somehow fall out of her mouth. “My ex just got engaged,” she whispers, her voice wobbling.

He surprises her then. He scoots closer to her, and then circles his arms around her, pulling her into a hug. She freezes up for a moment. He’s never touched her before. Not so deliberately, with no other reason but to comfort her. But then his arms are so strong, so comforting, and she needs this so much, she can’t help but melt into him. Her arms wrap around his waist, her hands interlocking with each other, squeezing him tightly. He squeezes back. She lets her tears fall onto the soft cotton of his black t-shirt as she tucks her face into his shoulder.

He doesn’t feel the way she thought he would. Somehow she expected him to be cold, and sharp, and hard. But he’s warm, and gentle, and soft, and she can feel him breathing, and he smells like sweat and aftershave. He feels like a real man, and Clarke hasn’t been touched by anyone in so long, it’s very overwhelming. Her tears are half for Lexa, half out of relief at having somebody hold her so—well, almost lovingly. She doesn’t want him to let go.

He strokes her back and lets her cry until she’s worn herself out. She sniffles, pulling away from him, and wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. It’s not like I’m still in love with her or anything. It just—took me by surprise, I guess.”

She hasn’t talked about Lexa with anyone since the breakup. Truthfully, though everyone could see how much it wrecked her, Clarke has never told anyone what happened with Lexa, not really. She pretended she was okay, like she always does, and refused to let anyone even speak Lexa’s name around her.

But now, she finds herself spilling her story to Bellamy, and god it feels good to finally let it out. The three torturous years they were together, as Lexa slowly wore away at Clarke’s self-confidence, tried to change her worldview to fit her own, and ultimately abandoned her when she got a better offer.

“You’re okay now,” Bellamy whispers, when Clarke is done talking. His hand still strokes her arm. “I know I can’t truly understand what you’re feeling. But I’m here for you.”

Clarke nods, and his words almost start a fresh round of tears. “Thank you,” she says. “Um—I’m not unhappy about you hugging me or anything, but I thought I read in the manual that you can’t touch me without permission.”

Bellamy nods. He looks thoughtful. “Your needs are always my prime objective. I guess any of my programming can be overridden if you need it enough.”

Clarke flushes. Was her need to be touched so strong that it literally rewrote his programming? And what would happen if she _needed _him in other ways? She squeezes her eyes shut, and quickly slams that thought away. Nope, she’s not going there. No matter how much that tug in her lower belly wants her to.

“Well, you’re a really good hugger,” she says. “You can, um—hug me anytime you think I need it.”

“Okay,” Bellamy says. “Are you okay?”

Clarke shrugs. “I will be. It’s just hard. Once upon a time I thought _I _would marry Lexa one day. And when I look back over our relationship, I realise how horrible and toxic it was, and I know I’m better off without her. But she broke my heart—not for the first time, but it was definitely the worst time. And it’s hard to forget a heartbreak like that, no matter how many years it’s been.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

The corners of Bellamy’s mouth curl up in amusement. “I actually think I do. I’ve been listening to a lot of Taylor Swift.” Clarke laughs, and Bellamy’s face lights up with glee. It’s cute how pleased he is every time he makes her laugh. “Do you like Taylor Swift?” he asks.

“Yes,” Clarke says. She knocks her knee against his. “Bellamy, this is going to sound weird—but are we friends?”

“Of course we’re friends.”

“But you can’t love. How can you truly have friends if you can’t love?”

Bellamy tilts his head, thinking. “I’m not sure,” he says. “But I can care about you. And I can enjoy your company. And I can wish the best for you. Is that not friendship?”

“I suppose it is,” Clarke muses. “Do you want to watch a movie with me while I eat my lunch?”

“Sure.”

-

Somehow, Bellamy convinces her to invite her friends over for a girls’ night. One minute she’s complaining about how all she ever does is work and paint, and the next she’s reluctantly writing out a guest list.

“It will be good for you,” Bellamy tells her. “You should spend more time with real people.”

Clarke pouts. “But real people suck,” she says. “Real people ask me things like _are you seeing anyone? _Or _what are your plans for the future?_”

“Clarke, humans need interaction with other humans. Even you.”

“I don’t even think my friends like me anymore. We barely speak.”

“They probably don’t even realise how long it’s been since you last spent time with them. Humans have a terrible sense of time. When was the last time you saw them?”

Clarke shrugs. “A few months ago. Harper’s birthday, I think.”

“Then I’m sure they’ll all be happy to see you,” Bellamy says, so confidently that Clarke almost believes him. He gives her shoulder a comforting squeeze, and Clarke’s stomach swoops. He touches her more and more often now. Casual, gentle, comforting. Sometimes it works. Sometimes she has to go and take a cold shower after.

Oddly enough, he’s not wrong about her friends being happy to see her. They actually seem _excited _to get together to drink wine and watch trashy movies. They all hug her when they arrive, and each other, because it seems like not only has she not been hanging out with them, they’ve barely be hanging out with each other.

“I’ve been so busy lately,” Raven groans, throwing herself onto Clarke’s couch. “Oh, and Shaw and I broke up.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me?” Emori says. She settles into the armchair next to the couch, and Clarke sits across from her on the other one, while Harper takes the empty spot on the couch next to Raven.

Raven shrugs. “I figured you guys were busy too. I just threw myself into work instead.”

“I’ve missed you guys so much,” Harper says.

“Same,” Emori agrees. “Hey, Clarke, where’s the wine you promised?”

“Oh, um—” she looks towards the door, and right on cue, Bellamy appears, holding a bottle of merlot and four glasses. The room goes silent. Clarke looks back to her friends to see them all staring at Bellamy, and Clarke gets an insight into what an idiot she must have looked like the first time she met him.

“Fuck,” Harper murmurs.

Emori recovers the fastest. “Clarke, you didn’t say you were dating someone.”

“I thought this was a girls’ night,” Raven adds.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Clarke says quickly, she makes eye contact with Bellamy as he comes over, and he raises an eyebrow at her, like he’s amused by the whole situation.

“It’s still a girls’ night,” Bellamy says, handing out the glasses. Four sets of eyes watch his every move. “I’ll be out of your hair in just a moment.” He pours the wine generously, then leaves the bottle on the coffee table. “Call me if you need anything,” he says to Clarke, and then he’s gone.

“Clarke, who is that?” Raven asks.

“Bellamy,” Clarke says. “He’s, uh—my Assistant. Roan bought him for me.”

“That guy is a _robot_?” Harper says incredulously.

“That is so cool,” Emori breathes.

“Yeah,” Clarke says. “Should we put a movie on?”

By the time the movie ends, all four of them are more than adequately inebriated, and laughing at things that Clarke can’t remember why they were funny in the first place. Raven keeps misquoting lines from the movie, while Emori yells out all the weirdest names from the credits, most of which aren’t even as weird as her own name.

Bellamy had left an extra bottle of wine last time he came into the room, and Clarke opens it now, quartering their fifth bottle, so all their glasses are full to the brim and the bottle is empty.

“Oop,” Raven says, taking a huge gulp. “I think we need more wine. Call your Assistant back. We also need some more eye candy.”

“Oh my god, he is so hot,” Harper gushes. “They really know how to make these robot men.”

“Clarke have you tested out his stamina yet?” Emori winks. “If you know what I mean.”

“Oh my god,” Clarke says, screwing up her nose. “No! I don’t use him for _that_. He just cooks and cleans and stuff.”

“Why not?” Raven says. “If I had one of those, I would seriously never leave the bedroom.”

“Come on guys,” Clarke says. “It’s weird. Don’t you think it’s weird? He’s a _robot_.”

“So it’s basically just like using a really _really _good vibrator. Like, he’s a machine right?” Raven shrugs.

“A sexy, sexy machine,” Harper adds. “A _sex _machine.”

“How realistic do you think his dick is?” Emori asks.

“If it’s as well made as the rest of him—”

“Stop it!” Clarke hisses. Her face feels all hot, and she’s pretty sure it’s not just the wine. “Stop objectifying him. He’s a person.”

“He’s literally not a person, Clarke,” Raven snorts. “It’s like objectifying a car.”

“Which is weird, so stop it.”

“Alright, god,” Raven says defensively. “If you feel so strongly about it.”

“You’re blushing so hard, Clarke,” Emori cackles. “You’ve definitely thought about it.”

“Okay, seriously? I think it’s time you guys went home.” She’s only half joking, but to her surprise Raven actually agrees with her.

“Yeah, you might be right,” she says. “It’s getting late. And Harper has already had way too much wine.”

“Me? You drank twice as much as me.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got an iron stomach.”

After some long goodbyes, promising they’ll see each other again soon, and the girls declining Clarke’s offer for Bellamy to drive them home, they’re gone. Clarke breathes a sigh of relief. It had been fun, but there’s only so much social interaction she can take before she needs to be alone again. She knows it will probably be another few months before she sees them again, but at least she knows now that they’ll still be her friends, still want to spend time with her, no matter how long it’s been.

Clarke heads back into the living room and turns off the TV. She picks up her still mostly full glass of wine from the coffee table, with the intention of taking it to the kitchen to pour it down the sink. She could just let Bellamy clean up, but he’s already waited on her and her friends all night, and he deserves a break.

“Here, let me take that,” he says, sneaking up behind her, his hand coming to rest on her lower back. She spins around, startled, somehow managing to send red wine splashing all over his black t-shirt, as well as her own pyjama top.

“Shit,” she swears, looking down at the burgundy stain soaking into her white t-shirt. Thankfully none of the wine made it to the carpet.

“I’m so sorry,” Bellamy says. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, it’s okay, it’s my fault.”

“Come on, if you want to save that shirt, we need to do something about it right away.” He takes the glass from her and sets it down, then leads her to the laundry. It’s not until they’re there than Clarke realises she’ll have to take the shirt _off_. She feels her cheeks heat up at the thought of getting undressed in front of him. Even though he’s a _robot _and he most certainly would not have any dirty thoughts about seeing her in a bra.

He seems to notice her hesitation. “I’ll give you some privacy,” he says. “Just put it in the sink and I’ll take care of it when you’re ready.”

“No, it’s okay,” Clarke says, realising she’s being silly. It’s basically the same as stripping in front of the washing machine, right? He doesn’t care about her boobs.

Still, she finds herself taking a deep breath before she grabs the hem of the shirt and pulls it over her head. She holds it out to him, and he takes it from her, looking her in the eyes. She’s sure she imagines the slight dip in his gaze as he turns back to the sink. He turns the tap on, and runs the stain under cold water.

Then, without warning, he pulls his own shirt over his head and tosses it into the sink with hers. Clarke’s mouth drops open, her eyes trailing over his smooth, brown skin. Even his back is sexy, all muscular and hard, and covered in freckles, just like his face. Clarke feels like she needs to have words with whoever designed him, because his beauty is like a personal attack. It’s completely unfair.

He turns back to her, and then there’s his chest, and Clarke can’t help but stare, transfixed by his perfectly sculpted body. It’s only natural that her thoughts stray, and she imagines her tongue gliding over his pecs, down his abs, following the tiny trail of hair from his belly button to his—

“Clarke?” Bellamy says, and Clarke snaps out of her fantasy before it can spiral too far into debauchery. Her eyes meet his, and her face is hot, her heart pounding, and, she’s ashamed to say, there’s a definite tingle between her legs. She wants him. That, she can’t deny any longer.

“Yes?” she says faintly.

“You can go if you like,” Bellamy says. Clarke nods, biting her lip. “Unless—you need something else from me?”

“I—” she stammers, then swallows, hard. She shakes her head, her face still burning.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, stepping towards her. “It’s not as weird as you think, you know. I could make you feel so good.”

“No,” Clarke blurts out. She steps back. “I—I can’t let you do that. I don’t want—” she stops, shaking her head again.

“Okay,” he says, backing off. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s okay,” Clarke says hoarsely. It’s not his fault. He’s just doing what he’s been programmed to do—responding to her needs. He couldn’t know that this particular need is one she can’t bring herself to let him fulfil.

“But if you change your mind—you have to tell me. That’s one hard line of programming I cannot cross. No matter how much you need it.”

Clarke eyes him, chewing her lip. “How do you know?”

“Because I can feel how much you need it now.”

“Oh my god,” Clarke says. She drops her eyes. She needs to be fucked so badly that he can literally feel her desperation. That’s so fucking humiliating. “I—um—I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”

She can’t get out of there fast enough. She tries to tell herself he’s not judging her, that she has no reason to be embarrassed because he’s not even a real human being. But she can’t get his voice out of her head. _I can feel how much you need it now_.

She shuts her bedroom door tightly and throws herself onto her bed, her heart drumming in her chest. Before she can stop herself, she slides her hand into her pyjama shorts. God, she’s wet. So wet it’s embarrassing. He could probably smell her arousal. Assuming he has a sense of smell.

Her fingers find her clit, and she lets out a soft whimper when she makes contact. She thinks about taking him up on his offer. Thinks about letting him strip her naked right there in the laundry and eating her out on top of the washing machine. She rubs at her clit, too desperate to try and take it slow tonight. She imagines touching him all over, imagines those huge, muscular arms wrapping around her, holding her down while he fucks her with his massive cock. Because there’s no way they made him look like _that _without also giving him a magnificent cock too.

It takes her all of five minutes before she’s tumbling over the edge, and it’s not a particularly _good _orgasm, but it’s enough to relieve the pressure a little. She removes her hand from her pants, stopping herself from wiping it on the sheets, only because she knows Bellamy will be the one washing the sheets, and she doesn’t want him to somehow find out what she did. That she masturbated to the thought of him.

Her stomach lurches at the thought of it, and she groans out loud, feeling pathetic. She hates that she’s attracted to him. Hates that he _knows _she’s attracted to him, and that she’s not getting fucked by anyone, and that she desperately _needs _someone to fuck her. Hates that she knows that it would only take her word to get him to do whatever she wants to her. And she’s not sure what bothers her more—the fact that he’s not real, or the fact that he _seems_ real, and yet he doesn’t have the power to say no to her, because his programming tells him he has to want whatever she wants.

She tries to get herself off again before she goes to sleep, fingering herself slower this time, trying to build her orgasm slowly, but she finds she can’t quite get herself there, and she falls asleep feeling thoroughly unsatisfied.

-

She’s not sure what makes her do it. Maybe it’s because she’s never been more sexually frustrated in her life. Maybe it’s because she can’t stop thinking about him. Maybe it’s because every time he so much as brushes her hand it makes her ache with want. Every touch sends her body and mind into overdrive, though she knows his intentions are nothing but innocent.

She tries to act normal around him. She pretends like he never offered to fuck her, and he doesn’t bring it up again either, but Clarke doesn’t kid herself that he’s forgotten. She knows he has a perfect memory, and she also knows he’s probably completely aware of the effect he has on her, of how horny she is all the time, of how much she wants him.

She lies awake at night, trying to think of anything but him, but ultimately always caving, fingering herself to a semi-decent orgasm while she imagines him inside her. So maybe it’s curiosity, or boredom, or desperation, but for whatever reason, as she lies awake one night, her cunt begging to be touched, she finds herself opening the manual again, and scrolling down to the section on sex. The section she hadn’t been brave enough to read before.

_The Assistant is designed to be able to stimulate intense sexual pleasure that feels just like engaging in sexual intercourse with a real human being. You can either command your Assistant to satisfy you in the ways that your see fit, or allow the Assistant to sense your sexual needs and act on them. _

_Though Assistants are unable to feel love, they can feel both attraction and desire. The strength of these emotions in your Assistant will be directly influenced by your own feelings of attraction and desire. However, your Assistant will be unable to act upon, or even talk about these feelings, without explicit instruction from you, even when in sensory mode. _

_Assistants also experience pleasure, and will be able to reach orgasm the same way a human can. Female Assistants are self-lubricating when aroused, and male Assistants will ejaculate upon completion. Both of these substances are non-toxic and are safe to be ingested, and inserted both vaginally and anally. _

_Sex with an Assistant is the safest, most pleasurable sexual experience a human can have._

Clarke reads it three times before any of it sinks in. It’s so clinical, and yet it only gets her more aroused. It’s the second paragraph that interests her the most.

Bellamy had said on the first day she met him that he could feel desire. She hadn’t taken much note of it then, seeing as at the time she had no interest in sleeping with him. Well, maybe not _no_ interest, but not enough interest to dwell on the subject.

But apparently, according to this manual, his attraction to her is directly influenced by her attraction to him. Which means he wants her just as much as she wants him. Theoretically.

Clarke bites her lip, her heart pounding. She knows he’s in his room right now. Probably not sleeping, since he doesn’t really need much rest. She could go and ask him. Give in to her desires. No one would have to know she did it, and she doesn’t know how much longer she can live like this, feeling so turned on all the time, unable to get the release she craves.

Making a split-second decision, she throws back her covers and gets out of bed. She gets to her bedroom door before realising she’s wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms with a hole in the crotch and a t-shirt with a faint wine stain on it that Bellamy had been unable to completely save.

Cursing under her breath, Clarke discards the pyjamas she’s wearing in favour of something sexier. She rifles through her drawers and finds a little black nightie she hasn’t worn since she was with Lexa, and she shimmies into it before checking herself in the mirror. She pulls her blonde hair out of her messy bun and tousles it with her fingers.

“What the fuck am I doing?” she mutters to herself, realising how ridiculous she’s being. She doesn’t need to fucking _seduce _him. All she has to do is go to his room, knock on the door, tell him she wants to get fucked hard, and he’ll do the rest. He’s not going to say no to her, because if the manual is to be believed, if she wants to fuck him, he wants to fuck her. So why does she feel so nervous?

She makes it halfway down the dark hallway, then almost turns around. After a moment of dithering on the spot, she keeps going. She’s come this far. She makes it to the door of his room, then takes a deep breath before she knocks.

“Come in,” he calls. Clarke opens the door. “What do you need?” he asks, putting down his book. He’s sitting there on the bed in nothing but a pair of form-fitting boxer briefs, looking like a fucking male model. Clarke stares at his crotch, and she tries to swallow, but her mouth has gone completely dry. Bellamy stands, ready to be of service, and Clarke manages to drag her eyes to his face.

She opens her mouth to tell him what she rehearsed in her head on her way over here. She loses her nerve. “I—um—” she stammers. “There’s a spider in my room,” she says lamely, blurting out the first excuse that pops into her head. “Will you get rid of it for me?”

He nods. “Sure.”

He doesn’t get dressed before he follows her to her room. She notices him eyeing her negligee, but he doesn’t ask her why she’s suddenly decided to stop dressing like a slob. He’s probably making his own deductions in his robot brain, and Clarke doesn’t doubt that he’ll figure out the real reason she came to his room. Especially when they get to her room and there’s no spider to be found.

They get to her room and Bellamy enters first, flicking the light on. “Where did you last see it?” he asks.

“Ummm,” Clarke hums. “It was over near the window.”

Bellamy makes his way over to the window, and Clarke watches, trying not to think too hard about the fact that he’s almost naked in her room, and she’s very horny and not wearing any underwear.

“I don’t see anything,” he says. “It must have moved while you were out of the room. Do you want me to look around for it?”

“No!” Clarke says quickly. “That’s okay. It probably crawled outside or something.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want it to crawl into your mouth while you’re sleeping.”

Clarke screws up her nose. “Gross.” And yet she’s not any less turned on. “But it’s really fine. It wasn’t that big of a spider anyway.”

Bellamy crosses back over to her, which is bad, because now he’s not only nearly naked and in her room, but he’s also very close to her, and he smells really good, and she’s pretty sure he has an erection. She looks up at him, willing herself to remain level-headed, but her heart is clanging around in her chest, and her arousal is starting to leak onto her thighs.

“Should I go, then?” Bellamy asks her. His voice is all gravelly and deep. “Or is there something else you need?”

Clarke nods, though she doesn’t mean to. “I need—” she croaks out.

“Yes?”

“I need you,” she whimpers. “I need you to make me come.” 

“I know,” Bellamy whispers.

He kisses her. He grabs her by the waist, her silky nightie scrunching under his hands, and he pulls her close, so suddenly she loses her breath, almost like she wasn’t actually expecting him to act on her admission. She circles her arms around his neck to steady herself.

He doesn’t kiss like she was expecting him to kiss. She was expecting all technique and no passion. It’s not like that at all. It’s messy, and fiery, and almost possessive. Yet he seems to know just what she likes, like he’s reading her body the way he reads a book. He drags his mouth over hers, bites on her lip a little, pushes his tongue into her mouth. He kisses her better than any human person ever has.

His hands slide down to her ass, and he hoists her up so her legs wrap around his waist. He carries her to her bed, still kissing her as he lays her down, the motion unexpectedly tender, in contrast with the ardent way his tongue is exploring her mouth.

He drags her negligee up her thighs, and Clarke shows no hesitation in helping him pull it over her head so she’s naked in front of him.

“I lied about the spider,” Clarke says, as Bellamy brings his lips to her neck.

“I know,” he laughs. Clarke laughs along with him, but it quickly turns to a gasp when he sucks against her skin. He works his mouth down her collarbone, kisses in between her breasts, while his hands palm her tits, her nipples pebbling under his touch.

He kisses down her stomach slowly, letting the anticipation build in her lower belly before he reaches the apex of her thighs. He presses his lips to her slit in a gentle kiss, and Clarke exhales, letting go of the breath she’d been holding. Nobody’s touched her like this in ages, and she’s feeling lightheaded, overwhelmed.

He lifts her leg over his shoulder, and slips his tongue between her folds. Clarke fists her hands into the bedclothes beneath her as he runs his tongue over her clit.

He eats her out like he’s done it a million times, like he knows her body, her desires, better than even she does herself. He teases her to the edge, then backs off, then gets her right on the precipice again, until she’s a writhing, whimpering mess, and she’s bucking her hips against his face, desperate to come.

When he finally tips her over the edge, his tongue deep in her cunt, his fingertips pressing hard against her hips, she sees white. She winds her fingers into his hair and presses his face against her pussy, gasping for breath as her orgasm takes over her body.

“Fuck, fuck,” she moans as she comes down, what seems like hours after she started. He lifts his head, and Clarke glances down to see his mouth and chin shiny with her juices. “Fuck.”

“Are you satisfied?” Bellamy asks her. Clarke closes her eyes, nodding. Her chest rises and falls heavily as she tries to even out her breathing again. Then she changes her mind, her nod turning into a shake of her head.

“I want you to fuck me,” she says. “I want to see your cock. I want it inside me.”

“Okay,” Bellamy says. He crawls tentatively back up to meet her lips with his, and she can taste herself on his tongue. She trails her hands down his perfect chest, looking him in the eye as she tugs his underwear down, just enough to free his cock. She looks down, biting her lip, and her heart leaps at the sight of his cock. He’s massive, of course. Not unnaturally so, because of course it has to be believable, but it’s still the biggest cock she’s ever seen in real life.

She guides him to her entrance, and her eyes flick to his again to see him already looking at her.

“Okay?” he asks her.

Clarke nods. “It’s—it’s been a long time for me,” she whispers.

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.”

Clarke nods again. “I know.”

He sinks into her at an excruciatingly slow pace, stretching her just the right amount, until he’s sheathed inside her. Her eyes flutter closed as he thrusts his hips towards hers.

Clarke nods. His strong arms hold her steady as he fucks her, and somehow he’s gentle and rough at the same time, greedy and giving. His lips tease her skin at her neck and shoulder, and with his cock hitting her just right, over and over and over, it doesn’t take her long to come again. And yet, he shows no sign of tiring, and he makes her come a third time, his cock deep inside her.

Completely boneless, and brainless, Clarke babbles nonsensically about how good it feels, his name slipping off her lips, until she’s begging him to come inside her. She’s so far gone she can barely appreciate the sight of him losing his cool as he finally comes, gasping her name as he fills her up with his come. And god, there’s so fucking much of it, and it’s been so long since Clarke has had a man come inside her that it sends her over the edge again, and she bites into his shoulder as she rides out her fourth orgasm of the night.

She collapses onto her pillows, exhausted, overwhelmed, and thoroughly satisfied.

“Oh my god,” she murmurs.

“How do you feel?” Bellamy asks her. He gets to his knees, come dripping out of her as he pulls out.

“Amazing,” Clarke says, dreamy smile crossing her face. Bellamy smiles at her.

“I’m so happy you let me do that.”

“You liked it too, right?”

“Of course I did,” Bellamy says. “I wanted you as soon as I saw you.”

“Because _I _wanted you.”

Bellamy laughs. “Perhaps.” He looks down at her, eyes trailing over her naked body. “We made quite a mess.”

“You can wash the sheets in the morning.”

“You want to sleep in come stained sheets?”

Clarke considers this. No, she doesn’t want to, but she also doesn’t think she has the energy to get up right now. Her legs will probably buckle under her. “I don’t want to move,” she tells him.

“I’ll put you in my bed for tonight,” he says.

“You’ll carry me?”

He smiles, ducking his head. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Clarke agrees.

Bellamy nods, approving of her decision. “Hold on,” he says. He leaves the room for a few minutes, and Clarke has almost drifted off to sleep by the time he comes back with a towel wet with warm water. He uses it to clean up her sticky thighs, gently wiping it against her skin in a soothing motion. Then he scoops her up and carries her down the hall to his bedroom, her head on his shoulder, her eyelids drooping.

He sets her down on his bed and tucks her into the covers. Then he turns to go.

“You’re not staying?” Clarke says, lip trembling. How does he not know that she needs to be held after all that?

“I didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“You don’t make me feel uncomfortable,” Clarke says. “I don’t want to sleep alone anymore.”

“Okay,” Bellamy says, and he crawls into bed beside her.

-

Bellamy moves into Clarke’s room after that. She doesn’t see the point in being alone every night when there’s somebody right there, already living in her house, who is all too willing to fill the empty space in her bed. And it seems only necessary, since he’s getting her off every night anyway, with his fingers, or his mouth, or his cock, or all three. She’s forgotten why she ever felt weird about it.

Since Bellamy has been in her life, she’s felt considerably lighter. Maybe it’s because she no longer has to worry about menial tasks like cleaning and cooking, and she’s been able to focus on her art, but having him around has also made her feel less lonely. It doesn’t matter that he’s not really human. It’s just nice to have his caring presence in her life, even if the only reason he cares is because he’s been programmed to do so.

She still hasn’t thanked Roan properly for introducing Bellamy into her life, though it’s been months now, and before she can get around to calling him or writing a thank you card, her benefactor invites her over for dinner. Knowing Roan, it will be unnecessarily extravagant, even if she’s the only person attending. She assumes she won’t be, however. There’s bound to be more of Roan’s rich friends seated around the table, and Clarke can’t help but feel anxious about the whole thing, knowing how out of place she’ll be among them.

She drags Bellamy along with her for moral support. No one except Roan will know he’s a robot.

Echo answers the door, and she looks Clarke up and down before she lets her inside, as if deciding whether or not Clarke’s outfit is acceptable. A command from Roan, no doubt. It’s a dress, and it doesn’t have any paint stains on it, so Clarke thinks Roan can hardly be too distressed about it.

Echo leads Clarke and Bellamy to Roan’s main living room, where he lounges casually with a martini in his hand.

“Clarke,” Roan nods when she enters the room. “Echo, fix Clarke a drink.” His eyes flick to Bellamy. “You didn’t need to bring him,” he says. “Echo has it covered.”

“He’s not here to help,” Clarke says. “He’s here as a guest.”

Roan raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?” He doesn’t admonish her for her admission, but Clarke still gets the sense she’s done something wrong. It’s not that Roan seems overly disapproving, but he does seem _surprised_, and a little too intrigued, as if he thinks there’s more to the story, but he’s allowing her to keep it to herself.

Clarke clears her throat awkwardly. “I wanted to thank you,” she says. “I know I wasn’t very grateful when Bellamy first arrived, but—I changed my mind. I, um—I like him a lot.”

Roan’s face splits into a knowing grin. “I bet you do.”

Clarke flushes. “Shut up.”

Roan laughs. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he says. “That’s the main reason I got him for you.” He turns to Echo. “Echo, fix Bellamy a drink too.”

A moment later, Echo hands Clarke a martini and Bellamy a glass of water. She then leaves the room without further instruction, probably to go and check on dinner.

“There’s someone I’m very interested for you to meet, Clarke,” Roan says. “His name is Dante Wallace.”

“Dante Wallace?” Clarke repeats dumbly. She’s heard of him, of course. He’s world renowned, and while he’s not her favourite artist, Clarke has admired his work in the past. Roan nods, smirking at Clarke’s obvious astonishment. “That’s amazing,” she breathes. Even if she gains nothing from the experience except getting to talk to him tonight, she’ll be happy.

Dante arrives five minutes later, with his much younger wife, Lorelai, and his son, Cage. Roan guides them all to the dining room, and Echo and another servant—whether an Assistant or real human being, Clarke can’t tell—serve dinner.

Dante seems nice enough, and he seems to show at least a passing interest in Clarke, though when she asks if he’d look at some of her work, he answers vaguely. Then the conversation moves from art to politics, Cage’s chosen field, and the moment has passed. And instead of feeling disappointed, Clarke feels oddly—relieved. There’s no pressure now, she doesn’t have to try and impress him. She can just enjoy the meal, and ignore Cage’s terrible political views. She definitely won’t be voting for him.

As she predicted, Roan’s guests seem to have no idea that Bellamy isn’t human. He’s quiet most of the meal, and the Wallaces barely seem to notice he’s even there. He’s just “a friend of Clarke’s” as Roan introduced him.

The Wallaces leave as soon as dessert is over, though Roan offers a tour of his home. Clarke is secretly glad she doesn’t have to stay any longer. Roan is the one who leads her to the front door after his other guests are gone. Echo seems to have retreated to the kitchen to clean up.

“It’s a shame that wasn’t more successful,” Roan muses.

“Sorry,” Clarke says. It’s probably her fault somehow.

Roan shakes his head. “It’s okay. He’s not the be all and end all of the art world. You’ll have plenty of other chances for success.”

Clarke nods, but the relief she felt earlier is gone, and there’s a knot in her stomach again. Roan glances at Bellamy. “Go and wait for Clarke in the car,” he tells him. Bellamy looks to Clarke for confirmation that he should follow Roan’s instruction. She nods to let him know it’s okay, though she doesn’t love how Roan spoke to him.

Bellamy heads outside, and Clarke turns back to Roan.

“I’m glad you’re happy with him,” Roan says. “But be careful.”

“Careful? I thought the emergency shutdown was just a precaution.”

“Not that kind of careful,” Roan says. “He’s perfectly harmless to you physically. Just—don’t get too attached. He’s there to serve you, not be your friend.”

“But he said lots of people use Assistants as companions.”

“Desperate, lonely people, Clarke. Don’t let him let you forget about the real world. Real people.”

“I’m not. I don’t see what the harm is. You use Echo for sex, what’s the difference?”

Roan shrugs. “Maybe there is none. I’m just warning you.”

“Okay, well, message received.”

Roan eyes her, knowing she’s not taken his warning on board at all. But he lets her go anyway, and Clarke goes out to the car, sliding into the passenger seat beside Bellamy.

“I’m sorry Dante wasn’t more interested in seeing your artwork. He’s missing out.”

Clarke smiles. “Thanks. But I’m not that worried about it.”

“I thought so. Did you not like him?”

Clarke shrugs. “He seems fine. It’s just—I don’t know. The thought of actually making it as an artist scares me to death. What if suddenly I make it big, and then people expect me to keep making great art and I can’t? What if painting for money, for fame, instead of just for the love of it, makes me lose all my inspiration?”

“I can’t answer that. But you’re a very talented artist. I don’t think it matters why you do it.”

“Sometimes I think I want to back out. Just go back to having art as a hobby, instead of trying to make it my career. Why do I have to make money off it to make it worthwhile?”

Bellamy shakes his head. “Money means nothing to me.”

“No,” Clarke agrees. “But it’s too late to change my mind now. Roan has invested so much time and money into me—and I’ll have to pay him back someday. And I’ve made such a big deal about it to my mom. I don’t want her to be right.”

Bellamy takes one of his hands off the steering wheel to slip it into hers. Clarke appreciates the comforting gesture. “I don’t know what the answer is,” he tells her. “But I know you’ll figure it out.”

He gives her hand a squeeze, and she smiles. She finds it so easy to open up to him. Not like Roan, or her mom, or her friends. Being with him reminds her that she doesn’t have to hold it all in. Doesn’t have to pretend she’s, well—a robot. And Bellamy is so insightful, so intuitive with her feelings, sometimes she feels like he’s more human than she is.

With him, she feels like everything is going to be okay. Roan has no idea what he’s talking about.

-

Clarke isn’t sure how he talks her into it, or whether it’s even his idea, but somehow she ends up in the kitchen with Bellamy while he’s cooking, even though she’s professed on many occasion that she hates it. She doesn’t know if she’s helping or hindering, but he never gets annoyed at her for being in the way, or not doing what he asked her to properly. In fact, she thinks she might actually be _learning _something from him, how to cook properly, not just how to boil pasta and fry an egg. And she’s actually enjoying it. Although that’s probably partly because he keeps “showing her” how to do things by getting up close behind her and helping her over her shoulder. He smells good, and his body feels even better. She’s of half a mind to forget the meal altogether and just have him fuck her on the kitchen counter.

She takes her bowl of risotto into the living room with a glass of wine, and Bellamy sits beside her on the couch, and she leans up against him, putting on a home renovation show while she eats.

“Do you ever wish you could eat?” Clarke asks, halfway through her meal.

“Sometimes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You always seem like you’re enjoying it so much.”

“Only when you cook it,” Clarke grins.

“Well, I am exceptionally good at it.”

“And modest too.”

“Robots don’t really have any use for modesty,” Bellamy points out.

“So I can never make you blush?”

“Do you want to make me blush?”

“Kind of.”

“Why?”

“I think you’d look cute.”

“You don’t think I’m cute already?”

“No. I think you’re hot as hell.”

She sits her bowl on the coffee table, then focuses all her attention on him. She slips her hand under his shirt, watching his every reaction to her touch, the way his pupils dilate, his skin goosebumps, his small intake of breath. How can his creators give him all that, and make it so realistic, and yet not give him things like modesty or love? So what if he doesn’t _need_ certain emotions? Clarke is pretty sure she has a hell of a lot of emotions that aren’t necessary or constructive. If the people who created Bellamy want him to be as humanlike as possible, they should give him irrational feelings too.

He sits up straighter, and helps her pull his shirt over his head, and in the same movement she shifts onto his lap, straddling him. She’s found that as long as she’s the one initiating it, she doesn’t have to actually ask him verbally to fuck her.

His hands grip her hips, and her hair falls around her face as she leans down to kiss him. He pushes her shirt up, and she pulls it over her head, leaving her in her bra and sweatpants. She can feel him hard beneath her, and she grinds down against his bulge as she kisses him. He unclips her bra and she lets it slip from her chest, then tosses it aside. She rolls her hips against him, while he buries his head into her tits. She’s glad even a robot can appreciate them.

As his hand slips into the front of her panties, she hears the front door open. She almost ignores it. Maybe she imagined it. Who the fuck would be just walking into her house unannounced? A moment later, her mother’s voice comes echoing down the hallway and into the living room.

“Clarke! I brought you dinner!”

“Fuck,” Clarke curses under her breath, already scrambling off Bellamy’s lap and reaching for her shirt. She manages to pull it on before Abby walks into the room.

“Mom,” Clarke says, trying to seem nonchalant, though she knows her face is flushed and her heart is racing from grinding on her live-in robot. “What are you doing here?”

Abby stares at her daughter, then her eyes flick to the shirtless man on the couch. Bellamy stands.

“I didn’t realise you had company,” Abby says.

“Most people call before they drop around,” Clarke points out. “Or at least text.”

Abby purses her lips. “Don’t pretend you haven’t been avoiding my calls.” Clarke rolls her eyes. Okay, so maybe she has been avoiding her mom these past few months. Abby gives her daughter a knowing look, then brings the take out bag she’s holding over to the coffee table.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your boyfriend?”

“Oh my god, Mom. He’s not my boyfriend.”

Abby glances at him again. “Sorry my daughter is so rude,” she says. “I’m Abby.” She holds out her hand for Bellamy to shake it, and he does so obligingly.

“Bellamy,” he says.

“My Assistant,” Clarke adds.

“Assistant?” Abby says, pausing. Clarke can see the gears working in her mother’s head. She turns back to Clarke. “You hired someone?”

Clarke swallows. “He was—a gift. From Roan.”

And there’s the judgemental, disapproving look Clarke had been expecting. “A _robot_, Clarke?” Abby hisses. “Really?”

“He can hear you, you know. He has feelings.” Clarke lifts her chin haughtily. Abby scoffs. “Bellamy, will you give us a minute?”

Bellamy nods, picking up his shirt and leaving the room.

“Clarke, what are you thinking?” Abby says, before Bellamy is even out of earshot.

“What do you mean, what am I thinking?”

“You think I don’t know what was going on here before I walked in? You’re sleeping with that thing.”

“So what?”

“He’s not human, Clarke. You’re filling a hole in your life with a piece of machinery, instead of putting yourself out there and finding a real person to date.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about. Bellamy isn’t some—replacement boyfriend. I don’t _want _a boyfriend. I just want—” she almost says _him_, but that doesn’t seem to be a strong argument against her mother’s case. “I don’t want the hassle of dating. It’s easy with Bellamy. There’s no chance of getting my heart broken.”

Abby shakes her head, forehead creased with worry. “Are you sure? Clarke, I know you. I know how fiercely you love. You’ll get attached to him. But he’s not a substitute for love, Clarke.”

“I’m not an idiot. I know he can’t love me.”

“Let me set you up with someone—”

“No! God, Mom. Just—just leave, okay? I don’t want you here.”

Abby opens her mouth as if she’s going to keep arguing, but then she exhales, and the fight goes out of her eyes. “Fine,” she says. “But you’re throwing your life away. First with the art, and now this—”

“Get. Out.” Tears prick at the corners of Clarke’s eyes as she watches Abby go. Maybe her mom doesn’t even realise what she said—but the truth is out now. Abby never really supported Clarke’s decision to pursue art. Clarke feels like an idiot for ever believing she did.

She runs upstairs and locks herself in her studio. It’s barely a minute before Bellamy is tapping on the door.

“Come in,” she calls, and he steps inside.

He never usually comes in here. She never forbade him or anything, but he seems to sense that it’s _her _space, and that she’d rather it be left untouched. There’s a half-finished painting of him on her easel. Most of her recent work is of him. Partly because he’s just so beautiful, and partly because painting someone is what she does when she’s trying to figure them out.

She seems him staring at it and feels self-conscious.

“It’s not finished,” she says quickly. That much is obvious. His face is done, but there are gaping holes in his torso. The idea was that she wanted to paint something that reminded her what he was underneath—that she’d fill in those holes with machinery or mechanics or whatever. But she found she couldn’t do it. Can’t even imagine what he looks like inside, that there’s not actually a beating heart, pumping blood through his veins.

“You painted me,” he says wondrously.

“Sorry. Is that weird?”

“No, I—I just wouldn’t have expected it.” He stares at it a little longer, as if he can’t quite comprehend it. He glances at her. “Are you okay? Your mom—”

“I’m okay,” Clarke says quickly. “She’s just like that,” she adds, but her voice wavers. Bellamy doesn’t push it. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to talk about it.

“You want me to run you a bath?” he says instead.

Clarke nods. “Thanks.”

She goes to her bedroom while he heads to the bathroom to run the bath. She pulls off her clothes and shrugs on a robe, then decides to go and wait with him in the bathroom as the tub fills up. It’s half full by the time she gets there, full of rose scented bubbles. Clarke sits on the side of the bathtub and plays with the bubbles, while Bellamy lights some candles around the bathroom.

“Do you want some music too?” he asks. Clarke shakes her head. Sometimes she just needs total silence.

As the bath gets full, Bellamy dips his elbow into the water to test the temperature, as if Clarke is a baby who needs protection from the hot water. She smiles fondly as she watches him. She can’t remember the last time somebody cared about her wellbeing so much.

“Okay, it’s ready,” he says, standing up and turning off the tap.

“Do you want to join me?” Clarke asks.

“Join you?” Bellamy repeats. Clarke loves it when she surprises him. It means she’s not entirely predictable, and it means he still doesn’t know everything about her. It means that maybe his robot brain is more human than even he knows.

“I mean, you have to wash later anyway. And I’d like some company.” Her robe falls to the floor, and Bellamy stares at her naked body reverently, like he’s never seen it before.

He meets her eye. “Okay,” he agrees.

He lets Clarke get into the bath first before he even gets undressed. She sits in the warm water, watching as he pulls his shirt over his head, the rest of his clothes following it to the floor a moment later. He retrieves his sponge from the shower, then sinks into the bath in front of Clarke.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable?” he asks, looking unsure. “There isn’t much room.”

“I’m sure,” Clarke says. She ducks her head, trying to hide her smirk. Sometimes he comes across as so naïve, though she’s sure he holds more information in his robot brain than she can even imagine. It’s kind of sweet. She hopes the world never turns him into a cynic.

Clarke scoots closer to him, so she’s between his legs, and takes the sponge from him. “How do I do it?” she asks.

“You don’t have to,” Bellamy says.

“I want to.”

He nods. “Just—like you would wash yourself, I suppose.”

She dips the sponge into the bath, then brings it to his chest, squeezing some of the water out of it as she goes. “Like this?” she asks, dragging the sponge across his skin. He nods. He’s watching her as she pats him down with the sponge, like he’s not really sure what’s happening, or why.

“Is this turning you on?” Clarke asks, dipping the sponge below his waist, softly rubbing his hard cock.

“Yes. Though I’m not sure why.”

“Because it’s turning me on?”

“Right.”

Clarke abandons the sponge, letting it float away as she wraps her hand around his cock, enjoying the change in his breathing as she starts slowly pumping her hand up and down.

“Clarke, don’t,” he says, and that’s the first time he’s ever rejected her. She stops, pulling her hand away. She feels a split second of hurt, before she realises that it means he _can _reject her after all.

“Sorry,” she says. “I thought you wanted—”

“I do,” he says quickly. “But you’ll ruin your bath if I come in it.”

Clarke smiles. Of course he’s only thinking about her. “Later, then.”

He nods. “Come here,” he whispers. Clarke obeys, following his guidance until she’s sitting between his legs, her back pressed against his chest, head on his shoulder. He strokes her thigh, almost absently. Do robots have subconscious thoughts and actions?

“Clarke, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Does it bring you pleasure to give me pleasure?”

“Uh huh.”

“Why?”

Clarke shrugs. “I like knowing I can make you feel good. Like you make me feel. Doesn’t it make you feel good to make me feel good?”

“Yes. But—that’s how I’m programmed.”

Clarke swallows. “Do you think—if you weren’t programmed that way… would you still care about me?”

“Am I robot or a human in this scenario?”

“What do you want to be?”

He’s silent for a moment. “If I were a human, I think I would still care about you, yes.” Clarke’s heart skips a beat at that, though she’s not sure why.

“I care about you too,” she admits. He kisses her shoulder, and it’s so simple, yet so domestic, so loving. Except, not loving, she reminds herself. He can’t do that. She doesn’t need him to or want him to do that.

Silently, she takes his hand and slips it between her legs, needing the release she’d been deprived of earlier. He obliges, lazily playing with her cunt, slowly bringing her to a quiet orgasm. _That’s _what she needs him for.

-

Clarke ends up at a bar on a Friday night after work with Emori, Harper, and Raven. Not because she wants to be there, but because they kind of forced her into it by being nice to her and telling her they wanted to see her. And now that she’s here, she finds she’s not actually having a bad time. Somehow every time they’re apart, she forgets how much she actually likes her friends.

“Clarke, put your phone away!” Raven scolds her. “Who can you possibly be texting that’s more important than us?”

Clarke looks up from her phone. She has been listening to the conversation, honestly, and she’s enjoying their company. But she’d messaged Bellamy earlier to tell him her plans to go out, and for some reason she’s still texting him.

“Have you got a boyyyfriend?” Harper sings, as if they’re fourteen again.

Clarke rolls her eyes. “It’s just Bellamy.”

“Speaking of, did you have sex with him yet?” Raven raises an eyebrow knowingly.

Clarke tries her best not to blush, but she knows she’s not successful. “Well—actually…”

“I knew it!” Raven screeches, causing the other three to flinch. “Well, what was it like? Amazing?”

Clarke shrugs. “I mean, yeah. Amazing.”

“I’m jealous, I want one,” Raven pouts.

“Me too,” Emori agrees.

“Same,” adds Harper.

“You guys have boyfriends, what do you need a sex robot for?”

“Who says you can’t have both?” Emori says. “Much as I love John, the sex isn’t _always _great. I’m assuming it would be with a robot. Right, Clarke?”

Clarke’s face heats up again. “Right.”

“So you have a boyfriend for the emotional part of the relationship, and a robot for the sex part. Perfect arrangement.”

“I’m sure Murphy would love it if you stopped having sex with him so you could have sex with a robot,” Harper snorts.

Emori shrugs. “He can have sex with the robot too. Or he can get his own if he doesn’t like mine.”

Harper turns to Clarke. “When are you going to start dating again, Clarke? I saw you-know-who got engaged. You must be ready to move on from her by now.”

“I’ve already moved on from her,” Clarke shrugs.

“With the help of Bellamy,” Raven grins, looking mischievous. Clarke’s heart misses a beat. “He must have been like—the perfect rebound. All sex, no strings attached, no worry about someone getting hurt. And now you can find someone you actually want to be with.”

“Right,” Clarke agrees, though her stomach churns at the thought of it.

“Maybe we should set you up on a blind date,” Emori suggests. “Or three blind dates.”

“Yeah, each of us can find you someone,” Raven agrees.

“Monty has this friend from work who I bet Clarke would really like,” Harper says.

Clarke tunes out, looking down at her phone again, rereading her last text to Bellamy, and his response she hasn’t yet replied to.

**You: ** _I am having a good time. And I know it’s good for me to spend time with my friends. I just wish you were here too._

**Bellamy: ** _And I wish you were here._

She swallows thickly. Raven, Emori, and Harper continue to discuss possible romantic prospects for Clarke. From what Clarke can be bothered to take in, the potential candidates seem fine, and Clarke knows her friends wouldn’t set her up with anyone who isn’t worth her time. And yet, Clarke doesn’t like the sound of any of them.

It’s not like she doesn’t want love, despite her constant evasion of her mother’s attempts to set her up with someone, and her fear of getting her heart broken. She knows dating is an inevitable part of the process of finding someone to spend the rest of her life with. But when she thinks about it, thinks about her future, thinks about the kind of person she wants to be with, she can’t seem to fathom herself with anybody who isn’t—well—_Bellamy. _

The realisation leaves her breathless for a moment. Of course, she was already aware of how much he’s improved her life, just by being in it. Of how much she cares about him, how much she craves his touch. How when she’s not with him, she’s thinking about him. How she can’t wait to see him, how safe and comfortable she feels with him. How she wants him to greet her with kisses, how she wants him to hold her hand when they’re in public, and fuck her hard when they’re alone. How she wants to be _his_. And god, maybe she wasn’t so aware of it already, because _fuck_—is she _in love with him_?

“Clarke? What do you think?” Raven’s voice cuts through the pounding in Clarke’s head, but not through the sheer terror she’s feeling at her realisation. She’s in love with him.

“Sounds great,” Clarke lies, voice sounding weak, even to her own ears. “Um—I have to go though. Thanks for making me come out.”

She takes an Uber home, needing the extra time away from Bellamy to figure out if she’s going to tell him or not. She doesn’t know what she’s going to do, only knows that she needs to see him.

On one hand, he’s probably going to realise something is wrong, and if she tells him he’ll be able to comfort her and make her feel better. On the other hand—what would be the point? It’s not like he can love her back. Telling him just means certain rejection. She’s not sure her heart can take that.

She walks through the front door, and he’s there to greet her almost immediately.

“Hey,” he says. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Clarke doesn’t answer. She chews her lip, staring at him, her heart pounding. She wants to kiss him. Wants to tell him she loves him, wants to hear him say it back. And that’s the reason she keeps her mouth shut. Because she knows he never can.

She can feel a lump lodge in her throat, and she tries to swallow it down before she can start crying.

“What’s wrong?” Bellamy asks, already reaching for her. Clarke falls into his arms, just as a tear leaks from her eye.

“Nothing,” Clarke says, muffled against his chest.

“It’s not nothing.”

“I can’t tell you.”

Bellamy is silent for a moment. “Okay,” he finally says. “What can I do?”

Clarke pulls away, shaking her head. “Nothing,” she whispers. And this time it’s true.

-

Nothing changes right away. But when she wakes up in the morning in his arms, knowing the only reason he’s there is because she wants him to be, she’s even more sure she’s in love with him. It seems so obvious now. How could she not be? She’s only human after all.

She tries to act like everything is normal. Tries to act like her heart doesn’t beat twice as fast whenever he touches her, tries to act like he doesn’t make her feel giddy with a mere look in her direction. Tries to stop herself from imagining that he could love her back.

When that doesn’t work, she tries to convince herself she’s not really in love with him. She reminds herself he’s a robot, not a human. She’s in love with the idea of somebody who cares about her so unconditionally, she’s not actually in love with _him_. There’s no future with him—she’ll age, and he won’t. It’s not like she could ever have kids with him. And the most obvious reason not to love him—it’s impossible for him to love her back.

But no matter what she tells herself, none of it outweighs the truth. She’s achingly, desperately in love with him.

He notices, of course. Not that she’s in love—since he can’t feel the emotion himself, perhaps he can’t pick up on it in others. But he notices something is off with her. She’s heartsick, and pining, and she can’t decide which is worse—being around him, or being without him. He tries to comfort her, and one moment she’ll be soothed by his embrace, the next she feels suffocated, despairing, pushing him away.

She locks herself in her studio and tries to paint anything that isn’t him, and ends up painting what she considers to be an abstract depiction of her breaking heart.

After another meal left mostly uneaten, Clarke can feel Bellamy’s eyes on her as she wraps herself in a blanket on the couch, ready to put on a thriller or an action movie—anything that isn’t a romantic comedy at this point.

“Clarke,” Bellamy says, his voice laced with concern. Clarke looks up at him. She wants him to come and cuddle her. She wants him to go away and leave her alone. “I think you need to see a doctor.”

She looks away, back to the Netflix selections on the screen. “I’m not sick.”

“Something’s wrong,” he says, urgently. “Something I can’t fix. You barely eat, you have constant mood swings, and I can _feel _that you’re not okay.”

“I’m fine, Bellamy,” Clarke says, eyes swimming with tears. He sits down beside her on the couch. She doesn’t look at him.

“You’re not,” he says. “I don’t know if I’m overstepping my programming, or whether this is just part of it, but it’s my job to take care of you. And when I can’t, I have to find someone who can.”

“No one can.”

“Clarke—” he says, a little desperately, and her heart swoops guiltily. “I don’t understand.”

She finally looks at him. Of course he doesn’t understand. “I’m not sick, Bellamy,” she whispers, still trying to hold her tears at bay. “I’m in love.”

He looks stunned. “In love?” Clarke nods. “But—shouldn’t you be happy, then? Isn’t love supposed to be a positive emotion?”

Clarke shakes her head. Her lip trembles. “Not when they don’t love you back.”

He looks pained. He wants to help her so badly, wants to understand, wants to make her feel better. Her heart twists. She supposes there’s no real difference in him knowing or not. And knowing might make _him _feel better. At least he might not be so confused by her behaviour.

“Bellamy,” she says, her voice quivering. “I know I’m not supposed to—but I’m in love with you.”

He stares at her, dumbfounded. “With me?” he repeats. “But—I’m not human.”

“I know,” Clarke says. “I love you anyway.”

He swallows. “Clarke, I can’t—it’s not in my programming—” he shakes his head. “I can never—return the feeling.”

“I know,” Clarke says, and this time she lets out a sob. He pulls her into his arms, and she cries onto his shoulder, shaking. God, she knew it. Of course she knew what his answer would be. Yet it hurts to hear it just the same. He doesn’t love her, can never love her.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “It’s my fault you’re hurting. I don’t want you to be in pain.”

She nods, not bothering to try and speak through her tears. She doesn’t blame him, it’s not his fault. It’s her own fault for not listening to Roan, to her mom. For not realising sooner what she was feeling.

“I wish I could,” Bellamy whispers. “I wish I could love you like you deserve. I wish I could _love_.”

“No you don’t,” Clarke says hoarsely. She pulls away, face stained with tears. She’s managed to stop herself from crying for the moment, but her throat hurts from trying to keep herself together. “You’re the lucky one. You never have to feel like this.”

How many times has Clarke felt like this? It seems like each time she gets her heart broken, it’s worse than the last time. Like the shards of her heart get smaller and smaller each time, and lodge themselves into her chest, where she has to pull them out one by one and somehow put them back together. She’d tried so hard to protect her heart this time, and he’d snuck in and crushed it anyway. Right now, she can’t see how she’ll ever recover from this one.

“I think maybe—maybe it would be best if you went back to sleeping in your own room,” Clarke says, making the executive decision. If she can’t be with him, she needs to stop acting like she can. She needs to find somebody who can actually love her back. “And we probably shouldn’t have sex anymore.”

“Okay,” Bellamy says.

“I don’t want you to act like my lover anymore, or my boyfriend, or whatever.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know I was.”

“Just—stick to cooking and cleaning.”

“Okay.”

Clarke nods, and gets up from the couch. She has to go before she starts crying again. If she cries again, she’ll just want to find comfort in his arms, and she can’t do that anymore if she wants to stay sane.

“Clarke?” he calls after her. She turns back to him. “Are we still friends?”

Clarke twists her mouth into something resembling a smile. “Always.”

-

Clarke takes Harper up on her offer, and ends up on a blind date with Monty’s co-worker a week later. His name is Riley, and honestly, he doesn’t seem terrible. He takes her to a nice restaurant, and he makes her laugh, and he seems genuinely interested in what she has to say.

She talks about her art, about Roan, about her mom, and her friends. Surface stuff, of course—not her doubts and her fears, just little things. She tells him about Bellamy. Not the part where she’s in love with a robot who can’t possibly love her back, and that’s why she’s on this date in the first place.

She talks about Bellamy like he’s just a robot who helps her around the house. Like he’s a cool new gadget she got. She feels bad about it, but she can’t risk Riley figuring out what Bellamy really means to her. The date would probably be over then and there.

Clarke lets Riley pay for dinner, and drive her home.

“Thanks, I had a good time,” Clarke says, unbuckling her seatbelt as he turns off the car.

“Me too,” Riley smiles. “I’m glad Harper set us up.”

“I’ll be honest, I’ve been dubious about dating for a while. So it was a pleasant surprise.”

Riley laughs. “Glad I didn’t live up to your expectations?”

Clarke smiles. She glances to the front door, where she knows Bellamy will be inside waiting for her. She told him to wait up in case her date turned out to be an axe murderer.

“Well, goodnight,” Clarke says. “Maybe we can do this again sometime?”

“Yeah,” Riley agrees. “Hey, um—feel free to say no. But can I meet the robot?”

Clarke raises an eyebrow at him. “Is this a ploy to get inside my house in the hopes I’ll have sex with you?”

Riley snorts. “No. I genuinely want to meet the robot. But if you want to have sex—”

“I don’t.”

“Okay. But I really do want to meet him.”

Clarke chews her lip. “Okay,” she agrees. “Sure.”

Riley follows her inside, and sure enough, Bellamy is there, waiting in the living room, on the couch, with a book. Clarke feels weirdly nervous as he stands up to face her. She notices his gaze flick past her to Riley.

“Bellamy,” she says. “This is Riley. Riley, my Assistant, Bellamy.”

Riley steps forward, holding out his hand. “Nice to meet you, man,” he says. He seems in awe of the robot standing before him. Bellamy eyes him cautiously, shaking his hand.

“You too,” he says politely.

“You’re really a robot, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Amazing.” Riley glances back at Clarke. She grimaces. The whole interaction is like a wildlife enthusiast meeting a skittish animal for the first time. Riley looks back to Bellamy. “Well, I should get going. Thanks again, Clarke.”

He gives Clarke a quick kiss on the cheek, and lets himself out.

“How was your date?” Bellamy asks.

“Fun,” Clarke says. “He’s really nice.”

“That’s good.”

“What did you think of him?” Clarke can’t stop herself from asking. His opinion still matters to her.

Bellamy considers her, looking a little more intense than usual. “I don’t like him.”

This surprises Clarke. “You don’t? Why not?”

“He could be dangerous.”

Clarke’s stomach drops. “Dangerous? What do you mean? Did you pick up on some vibe he was giving off?”

Bellamy hesitates. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Clarke says. She swallows. Fuck. Lucky she asked. She hadn’t picked up on anything like that herself, but perhaps Riley is good at hiding it. Lots of men are. “Thank you,” she says. “I won’t see him again, then.”

Bellamy nods, and Clarke thinks she notices him sigh in relief.

“Goodnight, Bellamy.”

“Goodnight, Clarke.”

-

It’s not easy, living in the same house with Bellamy, trying to get over him, needing him, craving him. Part of her thinks she should get rid of him. Send him to Roan or something. But what would she do without him?

She hates sleeping without him. Hates waking up without him. Hates holding herself back from kissing him, touching him. But she knows it’s for the best. She can’t help but hope he longs for her too, even though, if he does, it’s just because he’s mimicking her emotions.

After her date with Riley, Clarke figures she may as well keep up the momentum, and she messages Raven to let her know she’s ready to be set up with whoever Raven has in store for her. She’s disappointed about Riley, but Bellamy obviously helped her dodge a bullet. She doesn’t know what kind of danger he posed—does Bellamy think he’s violent? Or manipulative? Or just careless? In any case, she’s glad she doesn’t have to waste any more time on him.

She comes downstairs for breakfast, where Bellamy has some fruit salad and yoghurt waiting for her.

“Thanks for warning me about Riley,” she says, as he puts it down in front of her. Bellamy nods, his jaw tight. “Raven is setting me up next. Hopefully this one works out better, because I know Emori is going to set me up with her weird brother. And after that I’ll be reduced to asking my mom.”

“You don’t have to do this, you know.”

Clarke flinches. “I have to do something.”

“Send me away. Use the emergency shut down.”

“I can’t do that.”

Bellamy shakes his head. He bites his lip, and looks away from her, pained. “Clarke. Clarke, you have to.”

“_Why_?”

“There’s something wrong with me,” he whispers. “Something wrong with my programming, a fault.”

Clarke shakes her head, not understanding. “What do you mean?”

“I lied to you,” Bellamy admits. He swallows. Lines of guilt crease his face, and Clarke can see him torturing himself with the knowledge that he lied to her. “I’ve been up all night, I can’t stop thinking about it, I feel sick to my stomach.”

“What do you mean, you lied?”

“There’s nothing wrong with Riley. He’s not dangerous—at least, not that I could tell. I don’t know why I said it. Except that I didn’t want you to see him again. It hurts me to think of you with him. With anyone who isn’t me.”

Clarke stares at him, barely comprehending what she’s hearing. She stands up. “Bellamy—are you—_jealous_?”

“Jealous?” he repeats. He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Jealousy isn’t in my programming. I have no need for jealousy.”

“And yet, what you just described sounds a lot like jealousy. And then you felt guilty because you lied to me. Another emotion you aren’t supposed to feel.” Her heart is pounding. She shouldn’t get her hopes up. But what if, maybe, there’s a shred of tiny possibility that he’s capable of love too?

He furrows his brow in anguish. “See?” he says. “I’m broken. You have no use for a broken robot.”

“You’re not broken,” Clarke says. “Maybe you’re just more human than you think.”

He doesn’t seem convinced. “Clarke,” he says. “It’s better for you if I’m not here. Better for both of us.”

“Don’t you want to be here anymore?”

“Of course I do. I want nothing more than that. But I can’t stop thinking about things I can’t have. You don’t want me to kiss you anymore, or comfort you, or make love to you, or even touch you. And that’s all I want to do. Somehow the thought of you dating other people makes me hurt. _Physically_ hurt, and I don’t even know how that’s possible. I wish you wouldn’t introduce me as your Assistant. I want to be more than that. I think about how we could be together, how we could make a relationship between a human and a robot work. I want to be with you, always.”

Clarke laughs, though she’s crying at the same time. He looks so confused, so helpless. “Bellamy, you’re so stupid. I didn’t know a robot could be so stupid.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he says. “It goes against all my programming. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Love usually doesn’t,” Clarke whispers.

Bellamy swallows. “Love?”

Clarke nods. “Don’t you think, maybe you love me, Bellamy?” Half of her is sure—the other half is blind hope.

He doesn’t answer right away. Clarke can see him thinking, trying to work it out. “I think—maybe I do,” he says, finally. Clarke beams, and Bellamy smiles back at her joyously.

“Say it,” Clarke says. “If you mean it, say it.”

“I love you,” he murmurs, and it rolls off his tongue so easily.

“Does it feel true?”

He nods. “Yes.”

She kisses him. Leaps into his arms and lets her teeth clash against his, before toning down her joy, just a little, so she can kiss him properly. She wants him to take her up to her room now, and ravage her. He stops her though, holding her by her biceps as he pulls away, looking at her seriously.

“Clarke, are you sure you want to be with a robot? People won’t approve. And I can’t—we can’t get married. I can’t get you pregnant.”

“We don’t need to get married. And there are other ways to have kids, if I even want them. And I sure as hell don’t care what other people think. I want you. I love you, and I only want you.”

Bellamy ducks his head, smiling.

“It’s surreal, isn’t it?” Clarke whispers. “Being in love.”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice coming out all husky. He still seems unsure. Not about his love for her, but of her own assurance that she wants to be with him, in spite of him not being human.

“I finished that painting. You want to see?”

Bellamy nods, and Clarke takes his hand and leads him up to her studio. She’s got it leaning against the far wall. She’s filled in the gaps that were missing before, not with robotic parts, or human organs, but just with skin. It looks just like him.

“It doesn’t matter to me what parts you’re made of,” she says, as Bellamy runs his fingers across the painting. “Whether you’re a human or a machine. I only care about how you feel. And if you love me—that’s more than I could have ever dreamed of.”

“I do,” Bellamy says. “I feel more sure of it every second.”

She kisses him again, more heated than before. She guides him to take her clothes off, clinging to him, with her lips, with her hands. Her fucks her on the wooden, paint stained floor of her studio, murmuring that he loves her as she comes.


End file.
